


Dangerous

by johnsarmylady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Suggestions of Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a text giving him 36 hours to act - 48 hours later a truly horrifying story starts to unfold</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Said Dangerous.......

**_20.00hrs, Friday 1 st February, 2013_ **

‘I said dangerous, and he came.’ Sherlock stared at the now empty chair, the chair where John had sat that first night, thinking about the man who had to all intents and purposes disappeared from the face of the Earth. His thoughts were in turmoil, memories forced their way in. 

He had deduced from that first meeting that this man, this ex-army doctor, would thrive on adrenaline. Even Mycroft had seen it (and how he hated to admit that his brother could possibly by right!), in the brief time they spent together that night, five minutes that proved – if nothing else would – that John was driven not by greed, but by a need to be useful, to have a purpose. 

Anger filled the consulting detective’s mind. It was that same need to be useful that had led John to St Bart’s and an eight hour shift cover in A&E.  Admittedly it helped him to keep his license – he had to spend a certain amount of hours actually practicing medicine – and it gave him a degree of financial security, but it also made him vulnerable to attack, and attack this time had come in the shape of four burly thugs. Despite the doctor’s best efforts at self-defence, they were able to overpower him and throw him into the back of a small blue Volkswagen Caddy.

That had been 48 hours ago. A text, sent from a new pay-as-you-go mobile that had been immediately discarded, had advised him that his friend would be dead within 36 hours.  All Sherlock had to do to save him was find him.

The kidnappers knew his available contacts would allow him access to CCTV – why else would the coverage from the kidnap site show not just one blue van, but four of them, all with their number plates smeared with mud and unreadable, all coming from different directions, then travelling along the same road, overtaking each other, then dropping back, almost like a game of ‘tag’. One by one they dropped away, one by one they were abandoned, but none were abandoned where the CCTV cameras would capture the transfer of Dr John Watson either to another vehicle, or to the building that would prove to be his prison and his place of execution.

Unable to contain his fury Sherlock swung round, his outstretched arm pushing books, files and papers from his desk, his fists clenched in impotent rage.

“Brother dear; that will not solve the problem of the good doctor’s whereabouts” Mycroft stepped softly through the door.

“Get out, Mycroft!  The one time I need your help you turn out to be totally useless!”

“Sherlock, we have done everything we could, my people have examined hours of CCTV footage. There was nothing, no hint at all as to where they have taken him or why?” he leaned on his umbrella “What about your…..sources?”

“The homeless network have neither seen nor heard anything of John, they’ve seen nothing that struck them as suspicious, but this was no random kidnap” Running his long fingers through his hair, he started to pace in front of the fire. “They have taken John, and if their text is right he is already dead, but what is the point of killing him and keeping his body hidden?  Why tell me I could have saved him? Why torment me?”

“Did you inform Scotland Yard?”

“Well of course I did! Lestrade is off on a case, but Dimmock has taken the details and will let Lestrade know when he returns.

Mycroft watched his little brother pacing and sighed. He had not been certain of John Watson’s suitability as a flatmate when it was first brought to his attention – the man was a veteran of Afghanistan, wounded, broken by the war, his livelihood taken from him, a man struggling to live in the place he had come to consider home, and all because the ‘system’ didn’t value its war heroes enough to give them a pension fit to live on. Despite this, his attempts at bribery were met with a solid wall of contempt, and within hours of their meeting he had saved Sherlock’s life, and probably the lives of several unsuspecting taxi passengers.

“Mycroft! Are you listening to me?”

“Yes Sherlock, you asked if we had checked all the empty properties surrounding the vehicle drop points – yes, we have…..twice.” he cleared his throat and continued “we found his phone, though it’s of little use to us.” He withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket, its contents the shattered remains of the gift Clara had given to Harry Watson; that had been passed to her little brother less than six months later.

“Where?”

“On the Victoria embankment – you remember I told you, all four vans used that road, it would be impossible to tell which one dropped it.”

That had been their last real hope, that John had somehow managed to leave them a clue, a message, anything to help them find him, but as he looked at the crushed mess of plastic and metal, Sherlock knew it was a forlorn hope.

“Why?” dropping into his chair and resuming his scrutiny of the empty one opposite him, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why kidnap John?”

“Maybe the questions should be; what would be gained by kidnapping him? What would be gained by killing him?”

xOx

**_20.45hrs, Wednesday 30 th January 2013 (48 hours earlier)_ **

John cursed as they heaved him into the back of the small van, his left shoulder taking the full force of his weight landing on it, his head cracking against the internal panelling.  Two of the men climbed into the back of the vehicle with him, he assumed the other two were in the front.

One of the thugs roughly searched through his pockets, holding both his wrists in one meaty fist, and twisting his arms painfully. His wallet and phone were taken from him, and passed to the front passenger through a cut-out in the makeshift partition that separated the cab from the back of the vehicle.

“Why are you doing this?” John kept his voice calm, almost conversational.  The only response forthcoming were the twin glares he received from his captors.  It occurred to him then that he may be in more trouble than he had at first thought – none of the men who had attacked him had bothered to conceal their identities, which meant they were either too stupid to realise he would be able to identify them later, or – and more worryingly – they didn’t intend for him to be able to tell anyone who had done this to him.

John started to wonder why, apart from the hulk holding his wrists above his head, they hadn’t bothered to tie him up, and he was just debating trying to use his lack of restraints when the van screeched to a halt.  He was hauled into a sitting position as the back door opened and a third man entered. In his hand he held a piece of white cloth, and with one swift movement he pressed it against John’s nose and mouth.  John barely had time to acknowledge the familiar smell of chloroform before he was rendered unconscious.

xOx

**_20.35hrs, Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

Sherlock reached for his mobile, his fingers already tapping out a message.

“If he’s dead then surely his body would have been found by now. There would be no point in hiding it – they obviously want me to feel I’ve failed” he pressed send, and the text to Lestrade was on its way. “But there’s been nothing….” His voice faded as he heard the slamming of car doors outside the property, followed swiftly by the sound of two people running up the stairs.

“Sherlock, I….” Lestrade stopped, surprised to see both Holmes brothers. He flinched slightly as his mobile buzzed with an incoming text alert. He looked at his phone – a text from Sherlock. He looked perplexed.

“What’s happened?”  Sherlock stood and swiftly crossed the room. “Is it John?”

“Yeah, but…hang on, how did you know?”

“Have you found him?” He looked at the uncomprehending expressions on their faces. “Hasn’t Dimmock filled you in? John’s been kidnapped!”

“What?” Sally Donovan stepped around Lestrade, a look of shock on her face. “No, he can’t have been!”

Sherlock was about to brush her comments aside in his usual manner but he caught an echo of Sally’s shock in Greg’s expression.  He glanced over his shoulder at his brother – yes, Mycroft had picked up on it too.

He turned and looked at the police officers.

“Tell me”

“John was involved in an incident yesterday morning. We weren’t sure at first, the eye witness was a little shaky…..”

“Wouldn’t you be with a gun shoved in your face?” Sally’s voice was harsh

“Yeah, well,” Greg took a deep breath “Her e-fit looked a lot like him.”

“Yesterday morning?” Mycroft spoke for the first time since the officers arrived. “Yet you have waited 36 hours to come here, Inspector”

“The fire did a lot of damage to the cameras and equipment, it’s taken a little while to get clear enough prints…”

Sally held out three grainy security photo. The images were unmistakable. In the first a blond man, shorter than average and with distinctive military bearing, was holding a gun against the head of an elderly lady. The second showed clearly the man’s face – there was no doubt it was John Watson. But the third…….the third was the most damning of all – it showed the ex-army doctor gunning down a teenage boy in cold blood!

 


	2. What Kind Of War Zone

**_20.45hrs, Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

The Holmes brothers both looked slightly shocked as they stared at the photograph.  There was a time signature in the corner – 08:31:27 Thursday 31/01/2013 – Sherlock stared off into the distance, his brain frantically working out the timeframe.

“So, 12 hours after they took him, and 24 hours before…” He turned away and looked out of the window.

“Before what, Sherlock?”

The silence hung heavy in the room, as three pairs of eyes watched the consulting detective.

Growing impatient, Sally stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

“Before **_what_** , Freak!”

“Sergeant….” Greg started to reprimand his subordinate, but his voice was over-ridden by pure steel in cut glass accents.

“I would advise you, Sergeant Donovan, that if you wish to keep your rank and, indeed, your job, you will refrain from calling my brother by that odious epithet.” Mycroft gently swung his umbrella up to nudge at her forearm. “And you might also want to remove your hand from his arm.  I’m certain he will tell you all you need to know – when he is ready.”

Without releasing her grip, Sally shot a glance over her shoulder, but Lestrade just gave a brief nod.  Wrenching her hand away, Sally stomped across the flat to stand just behind her boss.

“How the fuck are we supposed to do our job then?” she hissed as she passed him

“You rarely do your job, Sally, which is why you need me.”

“Yeah well, Fr… Sherlock, you didn’t do my job so well for me this time did you? Your little chum and his friends killed an eighteen year old apprentice jeweller, and made off with a priceless collection of jewellery!”

“Shut up, Sergeant.”  Greg glared at her. “Sherlock, if John‘s innocent we’re going to need to talk to him, in fact the sooner we do the better.”

“You can’t” Sherlock picked up his phone and opened up the saved messages, then passed it over to the Detective Inspector. “I told you – he’s been kidnapped!”

Greg stared at the words on the screen.

_‘We have John Watson. He will be dead in 36 hours. Find him if you can, Mr Holmes.’_

“That’s it? No other contact?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Your colleague, Dimmock I believe his name is, traced the phone” Mycroft sat down in Sherlock’s chair and poked at the carpet with his umbrella. “It was purchased the day before the message was sent, that message is the only traffic on that number, and it hasn’t been turned on or used since then.”

“Probably ditched” Sally moved forward again to stand in front of the older Holmes brother, “’Cause John would know we could trace it – let’s face it, he’s been allowed to run tame over enough crimes scenes…” she left the sentence hanging and stared pointedly across the room at the two detectives.

“John is neither a thief, nor a murderer” Sherlock spat back  
at her. “If you have nothing constructive to add to this discussion **_Sergeant_** , I suggest you shut up!”

“I’ve made available all the relevant information that my teams have gathered,” Ignoring the impending explosion between his brother and the Detective Sergeant, Mycroft spoke directly to the senior officer. “Detective Inspector Dimmock and his team have been working with my CCTV specialists to try to fill in the gaps, track down John’s movements in the days leading up to his kidnap.  There has been nothing out of the ordinary.  The first I knew of any trouble was a report that the doctor had been attacked by four men and thrown into a vehicle,” he paused and gave Donavan a hard glare, “and the first Sherlock knew was when he received that text. It was timed minutes after the fracas.”

oOo

**_21.00 Wednesday 30 th January 2013 _ **

Two men slung Dr Watson between them, draping his arms over their shoulders and deliberately weaving about as they moved him from the van to the house.

“Come on, mate,” one of them said in a falsely hearty tone. “Blimey! If I’d know you were such a lightweight I’d never ‘ave bought that last round!”

“Wanna be thankful ‘e ain’t a rowdy drunk, I s’pose.” The other added, purely for the benefit of passing pedestrians.

The door open from within, and once they were through, slammed shut again. 

“In there.”  The owner of the voice was tall and slim, a woman in her mid-thirties, with an accent that spoke of southern France despite her perfect English. She stood and looked on, as John was stripped of his jacket and jumper, and dropped into a chair similar to those used by dentists. This chair, however, had restraints attached, and in minutes thick leather straps were secured across his chest, legs and arms.

At a nod of her head, a man stepped forward and pushed up the sleeve of Johns shirt, just far enough for him to access a prominent vein in his wrist and administer an injection of Diprivan.

“That should keep him out for around six hours.” He said, stepping back and placing the syringe in a metal dish. “More than enough for your requirements.”

oOo

**_10.00 Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

A loud crash reverberated around the room, violently throwing John in consciousness, a scream of terror bitten back as he choked on the brick-dust filled air. For a moment he struggled with memories of Afghanistan, the bombs, the screams and the gunfire, tried and tested methods such as deep breathing now hampered by tainted atmosphere.

The floor beneath him was bare concrete, cold, damp and uneven, and the room was pitch black, not a chink of light anywhere. Swallowing down panic, John attempted a clinical assessment of his surroundings.

_‘It can’t be Afghanistan – that could be cold, yes, but damp? England, then. London? We’ll see.’_

He felt around until his hand came in contact with a wall.

_‘Bare bricks, no plasterwork. Bricks, not stone – not an old barn or ruin – looking more like London then, or at least, not out in the middle of nowhere.’_

John allowed himself the ghost of a smile – seemed like some of Sherlock’s deductive powers were rubbing off on him. As he considered his next move, another loud crash rent the air above him, and a sound like falling rocks, almost deafening in its intensity, assailed his ears. Instinctively he curled into a ball, his arms curled over his head, his knees pulled up against his chest, waiting for the roof to cave in on him. 

It didn’t happen. Not this time anyway. Slowly he uncurled his body, and waited for the dust to settle, breathing shallowly through his nose.  Moving his hand back to the wall, he tried to stand, using the solid brickwork to lean on as his legs, somewhat weak and stiff, complained at his movements. It took several attempts, but finally he was leaning with his back against the wall, trying to catch his breath, aching from exertion.

Not wanting to consider his own physical state at the moment, John continued his examination of his surroundings.  Slowly, carefully he felt his way along the wall until he came to a corner. Standing for a moment, allowing his hand to sweep back and forth around the angle of the two walls he stood thinking. 

Decision made, he turned and placed his back against this new wall, his right hand touching the wall he had previously followed; now he was going to make his way back along the wall to see how far it went. Stepping carefully, he paced, counting each step, keeping his hand on the wall. Ten paces. Thirty feet, give or take a foot. He made a quarter turn to his left, and was about to lean back against the wall when a third crash, nearer this time, sent a jolt of fear through him as he flung himself against the wall, grazing his temple as his head hit bare bricks.

Shaking and clinging to the crumbling, uneven surface, he felt a pounding in his head that was exacerbated by the pounding from above him.  He coughed, the dust irritating his throat and lungs.  He would give anything for a drink – water, tea, anything – but he pushed that thought aside. Instead he pushed himself off the wall, and started to pace once more. Five paces. Nodding to himself he stored that information away and turned again.  As anticipated, he hit the wall again at ten paces.  This time he slid down to crouch in the corner, his head in his hands, his body tensing as realised he was waiting for the next crash, the next rush and thud of falling….falling what? Too loud and heavy for just mud and dirt – rocks?

 _‘In London?’_ his subconscious supplied unhelpfully _‘Yeah, well. Anything is possible in London’_

When the crash came, John was prepared.  Well, almost.  He still jumped slightly; still found himself breathing shallow, rapid, panicked breaths – because this time there was something different.  This time he could hear the rumble of tanks! 

_‘Tanks? In London? What sort of war have I got myself into this time?’_

He sat back on his heels, waiting for the rumbling to cease, considering his limited options.

_‘Well, Watson, you can just sit here on your arse and wait for something to happen. Or, you can complete your circuit of the room and try to come up with a plan.’_

He rubbed his face with dust covered hands, and stood up.

_‘Jesus, this must be what it feels like to be a lab rat!’_

oOo

**_21.00 Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

“Dimmock said you were working on some hush-hush case.” Sherlock continued to study the photographs through his magnifying glass, trying to find a flaw in the evidence.

“Yeah, SCD6* had a tip off that there was going to be an attempt to steal the Rostopchin Diamonds, they’ve been brought here as part of a major art and antiques exhibition.  We were following up leads, and preparing to escort them, and their current owners, from the Hatton Garden jewellers where they had been in safe keeping overnight, when John …”

“ ** _Not_** John!”

“…John and his friends burst in through the back of the building.  They were in, out and gone in less than ten minutes, leaving behind a traumatised octogenarian and a dead apprentice.”  Lestrade looked less than happy at the prospect of having to arrest his friend for this.  He stood, hands in pockets, wishing he could be somewhere – anywhere – other than here.

“And the fire?” Mycroft asked “The one that damaged the equipment?”

“An incendiary device, timed to go off once they had cleared the building” Staring insolently at Sherlock, Sally added “Wasn’t John in the army?”

“He was an army doctor, not an explosives expert.” Sherlock seethed.

“So,” Mycroft’s voice remained calm “The fire?”

Greg shook his head.

“The jewellers use an old fashioned video tape system, with no back up.” He sounded tired. “They’d never had trouble before, so they saw no need to update it. Anyway, the device went off in the room where the tape machines are kept, the sprinklers came on, and well, you can imagine what it did to the tapes.”

“Yes, it made the images bad enough to put the identity of the gunman in doubt” stalking around the crowded living room, Sherlock spoke impatiently.

“You think?” Sally snarled. “Then maybe this will convince you.” She pulled from her jacket pocket a sealed evidence bag, and held it in the air between her thumb and forefinger. “Recognise these?”

In the bag were a set of keys, unmistakably familiar keys.  They were the keys to 221B Baker Street, attached to a metal Rod of Aesculapius key fob.

 

**A/N: *SCD6 is the Serious Crime Directorate 6 of New Scotland Yard, the Art and Antiques unit.**


	3. Diamonds Are Forever

**_21.10hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

Sherlock stared at the evidence in Sally Donovan’s hand.  John’s keys. His eyes narrowed as his thoughts raced at lightning speed, considering all the possibilities. Had John been forced into taking part in the raid, could he have been threatened in any way?

“Have you checked the whereabouts of Harry Watson?” he barked the question at the Detective Inspector

“John’s sister? No, why?”

“Oh for God’s sake, Lestrade, isn’t it obvious?  If… **_IF_**...this is John, he may have been compelled to take part.  There are very few people whose safety could be used against him – myself, Mrs Hudson, possibly even you, Lestrade…but the one person most likely to be used as a bargaining chip is his sister”

During this exchange Mycroft had walked through to the kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking quietly, his expression serious.

“I have people checking on Miss Watson now,” he advised as he returned to the living room. “Meanwhile I suggest we adjourn to Scotland Yard to consider all the evidence we have.  Dimmock and Penniston, my CCTV specialist, will meet us there”

Lestrade nodded, gathering up the photographs and heading for the door. Sally stared insolently at the Holmes brothers.

“Don’t think you can talk your way out of this – your friend is a murderer, and as big a psychopath as you are….Freak!” with that she turned and followed her boss.

Ignoring the woman, Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Will you travel with me?  Or will you insist on travelling by cab?” the last word was said with an edge of distaste, but the younger Holmes brother ignored the implication.

“I’ll travel with you; this is really not the time for cheap-shot attempts at scoring off each other!”

Mycroft smiled, and wondered if his brother realised how much like the good doctor he had sounded.

xOx

**_10.30hrs Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

It was three paces along the final wall that John found it – a door! Leaning against the wood he pressed an ear against it, listening, trying to pick up clues as to who had put him here, and why. There was nothing that could help him, only the residual rumblings that had been a constant since that last crash.

Not wasting any more time with that, he took half a step back and started a thorough examination of the door with his hands – despite the adjustment of his eyes to the dark, it was still impossible to see anything that was more than an inch from his nose.  Starting at the top left hand side, his hands swept carefully across, feeling damp wood covered in peeling paint, the sharp edges of which scraped and cut at John’s palms and fingers, but he carried on regardless, working his way steadily down.

John was so pre-occupied with the door that he was taken unawares by the next crashing explosion, and he pushed himself tight in against the wood, keeping his body in the shelter of the doorway, remembering instructions from his army training days; doorways had reinforced lintels, making them less likely to collapse.

As he stood waiting for the dust to settle, he realised something hard was pressing against his hip.  Sliding a hand down, he encountered the cold metal of a door handle. Frantically John turned it, rattling at the door in an effort to get it open, but to no avail. Crouching down and letting his fingertips do the ‘looking’ for him, he explored the area around the handle and found the keyhole.  Leaning forward, he pressed an eye against the cold metal escutcheon in the hopes of at least a chink of light in that eternal blackness, but there was nothing.

Forcing down his disappointment, the soldier in him made him stand easy for a moment and analyse the information he had gathered.  The way the hinges were set in the frame meant the door would open inwards – no point then in trying to open it by throwing himself at it. And even if he could find something to pick it with, he was no Sherlock Holmes (he grinned to himself at _that_ thought), he had no experience of picking locks and now probably wasn’t a good time to start. He turned and leaned back against the wood, thinking. 

_‘The room is about fifteen by thirty feet, and obviously not in the best state of repair – flaking paint, crumbling brickwork, damp – always the possibility of finding something useful in the room….’_

Sinking to a crouch, John considered the best, the safest way to handle this. On all fours then, no risk of tripping and falling, no risk of broken bones or head injury.  Slowly, working from one side of the room to the other in a zigzagging movement, and sweeping his arm around at ground level, he searched.

xOx

**_14.00hrs Monday 14 th January 2013 (17 days before the kidnap)_ **

Two people sat in the lounge area of the hotel suite; one was a doctor, the other a ‘fixer’. It was he who had arranged for the doctor to be present, brought them to this rendezvous.  They were waiting for a third person, the mastermind behind the plan.

The bedroom door opened, and a tall, slim woman entered, walking with cat-like grace across the room and taking the only vacant seat. She nodded to the fixer, and then turned hard, obsidian eyes on the doctor.

Both men had risen to their feet as she entered the room, now only the doctor remained standing, waiting to be introduced. The newcomer held out a slender hand in greeting.

“Welcome Dr Simone, you may call me Madam Diane” the French accent gave a sensuous edge to her voice, an edge that was totally at odds with her cold gaze.

Simone shook the offered hand and returned to his seat, his gaze flicking between his two companions.

“How can I be of service, Madam?” he asked

“I need a man to be kept unconscious for a time, not hurt” she emphasised as a look of concern crossed the medical man’s features “just enough to keep him quiet for, say, four or five hours.”

“May I ask why?”

“That’s not advisable, doctor”

“Your man here says I’ll be well paid – how well paid?”

“Enough for you to change your identity and set up in practice, somewhere where they haven’t heard of the disgraced Dr Simone”

The doctor hung his head, knowing this was an offer he would be foolish to refuse – he could return to general practice, try to forget about the ridiculous accusations of that hysterical teenager, accusations that led to him being struck off. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked back at his new employer.

“Yes, okay. When?”

The fixer gave him the time and place, emphasising the need for punctuality, and above all, discretion.

“You can supply the necessary drug?” Madam Diane’s eyes narrowed as she watched for his reaction.

“Diprivan – a general anaesthetic. Do you have details of the man I am to anaesthetise? Height, weight etc?”

The woman picked up an envelope from the floor beside her chair, and removed from it a glossy photograph. The subject was Dr John Watson, the photograph having been taken as he was standing waiting to follow his friend into the back of a London Taxi.

“Approximately five feet seven inches” the fixer explained, “compact build, ex-army so you’d need to allow for muscle weight, the guy keeps himself fit”

Simone nodded.

“I will be there. And payment will be?”

“In cash, on the delivery of one unconscious man” The lady rose to her feet and held out her hand once more. “A pleasure doing business with you Dr Simone. I look forward to seeing again”

Dismissed, the doctor let himself out of the room, taking the lift and walking out through the foyer in a daze, thinking only of the money he would be paid.

As the suite door closed behind him, Madam Diane sat down and turned her attention to her fixer.

“It’s all arranged, Madam,” he smiled. “Four heavies, two grand each, no questions asked.  They’d sell their grannies for less, each and every one of them. Then there are three lads to drive the decoy vehicles, hundred quid each. All trustworthy.  The vans will be in place and ready to go by early evening.”

“Good.  And the trap?  The set-up for Dr Watson?”

“A suitable candidate for blackmail has been found – he will be advised to suggest the good doctor as an ideal replacement.”

“And finally – the place of….shall we say….execution?”

“An ideal place has been found and prepared.  Nothing will happen until after he has been placed there.  Two of the kidnap team have set it all up, for an extra couple of hundred each.”

Madam Diane relaxed back in her chair, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face.

“The Rostopchin Diamonds are worth tens of millions, even on the black market. In three weeks we will be rich!”

xOx

**_11.45hrs Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

John had almost given up hope of finding anything useful in his prison when his hand knocked into a small pile of rubble, a collection of broken bricks and sharp stones. For ten minutes or more he sat, cross legged, sorting through the pile, feeling around each item he picked up, testing the strength of the sharper ones by tapping them quite hard against the concrete floor.

He finally chose three largish, sharp rocks.  John cursed his missing jacket as he couldn’t fit his crude tools into his trouser pockets, they were too large.  A few more minutes thought, and the problem was solved.  He undid a couple of buttons on his shirt and slid them inside, his shirt – once re-buttoned – acting as a giant pouch.  He crawled to his left, to what he was sure was the nearest wall, and then slowly followed it round until he reached the door once more.

Despite its age, and the damp conditions, the wood held firm as for almost an hour John hammered at the door and the doorframe around the lock, trying to break through or at least weaken it enough to kick it in.  His hands were cut and bleeding, his arms aching and his head pounding.  Fortunately he was too busy to worry about his lack of food and water, despite it being almost twenty four hours since he last ate.

Pulling on reserves of strength he didn’t know he had, John threw himself back into his work, ignoring the pain of his lacerations as he drove the sharp end of the rock time and again into the wood. Suddenly, with a loud crack the wood gave out, and throwing the rock down John scrabbled at the splintered wood with his fingernails, almost tearing them out in his desperation, finally getting a hold on either side of the lock. Standing up, he put his full weight into pulling at the door, one foot pushing against the wall to give him greater leverage.

When the door gave out, it flew open, and John lost his balance, falling hard onto his backside, but he didn’t care – the door was open!  He stood up and put his hand out, finding first the splintered door frame.  With a smile he put his hand through the doorway and felt…more brickwork!  The door had been bricked up! John turned and slid down the wall, oblivious to the scratches forming down his back and shoulders, until he sat on the floor, amid the shattered remains of his endeavours, and with his head in his hands he gave in to hot, angry tears.


	4. Deadly Distractions

**_22.00hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

The small meeting room on the fourth floor of New Scotland Yard had been converted to an operations centre, with several computers, television screens, and probably most importantly, a link to Mycroft’s own operations team and the CCTV feeds.

Dimmock had quickly put aside his misgivings at working with the shadowy Government team, and was now almost feverish with excitement as they scanned back through the tapes.

“I’m sure it was here…yes!  Look, there!”

Sherlock leaned over the back of the young Detective Inspector’s chair to get a closer look.  The tape was paused, showing a shadowy figure climbing out of a rather non-descript dark hatchback, arm outstretched, a bundle of clothing in hand.

“Why on earth would anyone want to dump their old clothes in a bin at the side of the road?”

“Why indeed?” Sherlock breathed, looking at the wall behind the screen, his eyes unfocused as his thoughts whirled.

Lestrade was standing next to him, tying to read the location. He looked down at Penniston, Mycroft’s specialist.

“Can you tell me where that is?” he asked, drawing the attention of everyone else in the room.  Penniston’s fingers flew over the keyboard, and the image was replaced by a large scale street map. A few moments later and the location of the CCTV camera was flashing on the screen.

“Benjamin Street, Sir, EC1”

Lestrade turned away.

“Donovan, send someone over there, let’s see if those bins have been emptied yet.” He thought for a moment, then “I suppose you’d better let the boys out at Snow Hill know we’ll be on their patch for a bit longer.”

As Sally left the room, Mycroft stepped up beside his brother.

“Penniston, can you reverse the route of that car for me please, I want to know where it was at the time of the robbery.”

Moving away, he motioned for Sherlock and Lestrade to follow him.

“There is something bothering me about this, and I’m sure, brother dear, that it must have occurred to you also…”

“The lack of contact from the kidnappers, lack of clues.” Sherlock supplied, nodding. “They obviously know how to reach me, and yet since that first text, silence.”

“I would suggest that whoever has set this up is relying on that fact that you would be caught up, frustrated at the lack of information, and worried about the safety of your friend.”

The brothers stared at each other. For once, Mycroft wasn’t being condescending; he had seen the genuine concern on the younger man’s face. Sherlock nodded, then sat down on the edge of a desk, his fingers steepled against his chin, eyes narrowed.

“They wanted to keep me away from the initial stages of the investigation, that’s why they kidnapped John.  They knew I’d try to find out where he had been taken, essentially this is an elaborate smokescreen…”

“We still have visuals of John at the scene of the crime” Lestrade reminded them. “He knows you well enough to know how to pique your interest, Sherlock, and as much as I hate to believe he’s not the man we thought he was, it’s really not looking good from any angle.”

oOo

**_14.00hrs Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

John didn’t know how long he’d sat there, defeated, his back against the cold damp bricks. He realised he didn’t even know if it day or night, so dark was his prison, but something of the soldier still in him made him realise that he couldn’t just sit there, it was far too cold, and he no longer had his jacket or jumper to protect against the elements.

Climbing wearily to his feet, he attempted to generate some warmth by rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He instantly regretted his actions, and swore long and loud as his shredded palms rebelled at such rough treatment. Lack of light meant he couldn’t assess the damage, but he could guess at how badly cut he was.  And now he knew the extent of his confines, and had found the only possible escape route to be firmly blocked, he started to consider his state of health.

When he had first woken, he’s been concentrating so hard on trying to find a way out that he hadn’t realised how hungry he was, now his stomach was making its feelings known, and he found himself thinking about…

_‘Stop it you prat! Thinking about food will only make it worse!’_

Unfortunately for John, there was precious little now to occupy his mind. Manoeuvring carefully around the lumps of splintered wood and stones that littered the area near the bricked up door, he found himself up against the long wall again.  Food wasn’t the only thing his body was thinking about, so he paced his way along the wall, turning to his left when he reached the end, and five paces along he came to the other corner.  Thanking the fates that being both a doctor and a soldier made you almost immune to the embarrassment of bodily functions, he relieved himself, carefully leaning into the wall, and avoiding splash-back, then made his way back to his ‘home’ corner, diagonally opposite and as far from his designated toilet as possible.

As he stood trembling with both cold and fear in almost equal amounts, it occurred to him that there hadn’t been any more explosions, just the occasional rumbling of vehicles, interspersed with loud scraping sounds and falling rocks.  In an effort to keep warm, he started pacing, and to keep his mind occupied he tried to envisage what those noises were, tried to imagine everything that was going on in the world outside his room.

oOo

**_22.50hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

“Sir,” Penniston’s voice cut across the low hum of computers and the background chatter coming from outside the meeting room. “Sir, we’ve found where the car was parked”

“Excellent work” Mycroft’s voice showed no emotion, but the young man knew it was high praise indeed.

“Where?” Sherlock was out of his chair and leaning over the computer screen

“Here Sir, you can see it just leaving that NCP car park in Farringdon Road”

The dark car could be seen driving out into the daylight, and as the tape rolled forwards, it drove off towards Charterhouse Street.

“Can you get a clearer picture of the number plate?” Greg joined them to look at the monochrome picture on the screen.

“Don’t need to, Sir” Penniston allowed himself a small grin. “All NCP car parks in the City and West End have CCTV – it’s been standard since the eighties and the IRA threat.”  Applying himself once more to his keyboard, he gained access and created links to car parks network, narrowing the views to the relevant building.

“Thank goodness they went digital a few years ago,” he explained as he worked. “That means they keep recordings for a calendar month, as this was just days ago it shouldn’t take too long to find”

“Really?” Greg looked startled.

“Yes, Detective Inspector. I assumed you would have been aware of this sort of development.” Mycroft looked pointedly at the older man, who coloured painfully and shook his head. “Ah. Time to catch up with technology then.”

A knock at the door heralded the return of Sally Donovan, her mobile pressed to her ear.  She finished the call and spoke to Lestrade.

“Thank goodness for Local Authority spending cuts, and the laziness of the British Public! The bin hadn’t been emptied, and the only thing in it was the clothing” she looked pointedly at Sherlock. “John Watson’s jacket and jumper, if the description is anything to go by”

Sherlock’s snarled response was cut off by Lestrade stepping between the two antagonists.

“Where are they now?”

“On their way to forensics”

“Lestrade, I need to see them.” Sherlock grabbed the Detective Inspector’s arm, pulling the man round to face him. “They may hold vital clues as to where John was taken.”

“Our forensics…”

“Anderson?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Anderson hates John, almost as much as he hates me.” Grey eyes pleaded with Lestrade.

“That’s because he’s always taking your side” Sally mumbled.

“This isn’t a playground squabble!” the consulting detective snapped. “One man is dead, another too if the text message is to be believed, but if he’s not dead, then I’m your best chance to find out where he is.”

“Sally, take him down to forensics.” Lestrade ordered. “Tell Anderson that Sherlock will need access to those clothes – send him out for coffee if you have to.” He turned back to the younger man “I’m trusting you on this one Sherlock, don’t let me down.  You find anything – _anything at all_ – you let me know first, understood?”

Sherlock nodded, glancing sideways at his brother.

“I’ll let you know if we get any usable leads here” Mycroft assured him.

A short while after Sherlock and Donovan left the room, Dimmock approached Mycroft, holding a slip of paper with a car registration number on it.  He looked up at the elder Holmes brother.

“I’ll run this through the PNC, find out who it belongs to.  Should I tell your brother, Sir?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Let him work with the clothing – we’ll trace the car and see if it gives us anything to go on”

oOo

**_23.55hrs Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

John missed the fact that, over time, the rumbling, scraping noises outside the room had ceased, missed the fact that if he’d listened a little harder he would have heard the distant sounds of rush hour traffic, dying away gradually to reflect the hour, the sounds now so infrequent as to seem non-existent.

Nor did John realise that, with each turn of five paces up, five paces back, he was moving further from the wall; didn’t realise, until he put his hand out to lean against the brickwork, only to find nothing there.

The man alone in the cold and dark finally succumbed to his fear. Panic hit him like an express train, twisting his stomach and causing his heart to hammer beneath his ribs. Flinging his hands out, John turned in circles trying to find an anchor point, something solid in the blackness of the room, but all he found was emptiness.

 From somewhere nearby he could hear a high pitched keening, and he sunk to his knees, his hands covering his ears. He didn’t realise that the screaming was coming from his own throat.

 


	5. An Unexpected Ally

**_23.00hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

Sherlock took the time to look around at the forensics facility with a degree of appreciation. He and Sally Donovan had exchanged the occasional unfriendly glare, but neither spoke once Anderson had been persuaded to leave the laboratory.

The consulting detective all but pounced on the police constable who delivered the clothes in their evidence bag, grasping the items and taking them to a clean, empty bench.  Snapping on latex gloves, he carefully broke the seal on the bag, aware that Sally was watching his every move. Laying out both items, he looked first at the black jacket. 

Dirt adhered to the back of the garment, where it had been wrapped around the jumper and dropped into the bin, and the material held the lingering aroma usually associated with landfill and rubbish tips. Sherlock’s nose twitched – Sally’s turned up in disgust.

Picking up a pair of tweezers, Sherlock gently lifted several individual hairs from around the jacket collar – one was long and dark, he quirked an eyebrow as he wound it down into a petri dish and clipped a lid on.  He did the same with the half dozen shorter, lighter strands, putting the dishes to one side once he was sure he had collected all of the samples.

“Some of those look like they have follicles attached; they may well yield decent DNA results.”

“It’ll only tell us what we already know, Freak, that John Watson has gone over to the bad guys.  Now if you were to ask me,” she added almost thoughtfully as she leant nonchalantly against the far side of the bench, “my money would have been on it being you who would provide us with a dead body, not your ‘squeaky-clean’ flatmate.”

Stormy grey eyes flicked in the Detective Sergeant’s direction, but no comment was made as Sherlock carefully pushed his fingers into each of the jacket’s pockets, feeling carefully for possible clues, but all he found was an empty energy bar wrapper – John’s usual emergency rations for when he was too busy to stop and eat a proper meal.  Despite his confidence that it had indeed been left there by his friend, he placed this into an evidence bag for later study.

“Useless” the baritone was soft, almost whispering, yet Sally listened keenly; despite her animosity, she couldn’t fault Sherlock’s tenacity in his defence of his friend.

He turned his attention to John’s pale grey cable knit jumper. It wasn’t long before his keen eyesight picked up traces of something on the front, just below the neckband.  Reaching for a scalpel he scraped a small amount and spread it onto a slide.

“What’s that?” Sally moved a little closer as Sherlock placed the slide under a microscope.  There was a moment or two of silence before he responded.

“Wax” Sherlock raised his head and stared off into the distance, then looked back at the sample. “There’s something different about this though…”

“Maybe it dripped from a candle?” Sally offered. Her thought earned her another glare from the young man beside her.

He moved back to the jumper, studying the neckband more carefully, turning it this way and that under the bright laboratory lights.

“Aha!” A thin hand shot out to the side, index figure pointing towards a side table “Pass me one of those swabs” he demanded imperiously.

“Yeah and what did your last servant die of?” Sarcasm dripped acidly from Donovan’s tongue

“Don’t be petty, Sergeant, it doesn’t do anything to change my original reading of your character, please at least try to prove that my assessment of your intellect may have been slightly wide of the mark”

Without waiting for her reaction, Sherlock lifted the jumper to his nose, sniffing the woollen material.

“Oh please, that’s gross!” she handed him a swab.

Carefully working it into the weave of the material, he twirled the cotton-capped stick, collecting a smear of beige coloured matter on the tip. He held it up to the light before also testing it with his nose.

“Make-up” he declared, showing the stained swab to the woman standing beside him. “By the smell I would say it’s a cheap brand, of the type aimed at young teenage girls with little money”

“I didn’t know John wore make up” Sally smirked “Did he buy it especially for his nights out with his boyfriend?”

“He’s not gay”

“And are you?”

Sherlock’s grey eyes looked into Sally’s dark brown ones.

“I’m not the one under investigation” he answered finally.

xOx

**_23.15hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

Dimmock punched the air with childish satisfaction.

“Yes!”

“Found something?” Greg was striding across the room in seconds, eager to be doing something constructive.

“Yes, we have a name and address for the owner of the car, and he has form – aggravated TDA, ABH, GBH, numerous speeding offences, and released six months ago from Pentonville after a short stretch for receiving stolen goods.”

“Charming” Mycroft commented in a low voice “You’ll have him picked up?”

“Uh, yeah – Dimmock what’s his address?”

Dimmock wrote it down and passed it over, and Greg crossed back to the open door, putting his head out and calling across to the officers working nearby.

“Somebody put together a team for me.  I need you to pick up Stuart Britton on suspicion of aggravated theft, kidnap and accessory to murder.  Anyone else in the house with him needs to be brought in too, same charges.” he paused for a moment, thinking, then “can you get the vehicle recovery team in to bring in his car” he added the car registration number to the paper with the address on.

Half a dozen people gathered up coats and jackets, heading for the door.  Greg looked back into the room, his eyes meeting and holding those of the older Holmes brother, and jerking his head towards the now empty outer office he walked away without waiting to see if the man followed him.  

Staring unseeing out into the night, Greg rubbed a hand round his chin, feeling old and tired, worn down by the revelations of the last forty hours. A soft noise next to him alerted him to Mycroft’s presence, and he looked up into the night darkened windows.

“Tell me honestly, Mycroft, do you think John’s innocent?” he spoke to the reflection next to his own, finding it easier than looking into those piercing blue eyes.

“I believe he is, Detective Inspector, and I think you do too” the response was immediate, soft but firm, as if there could never have been any doubt of the ex-soldier’s innocence.

Greg continued to stare at the reflections.

“I want to believe it; truly I do, but the evidence…”

“The evidence has been manipulated. You know John Watson as well as I do, and while he may not be a wealthy man, he would not stoop to robbery to increase his wealth, nor would he murder an innocent boy in cold blood.” Leaning on his umbrella, he stared at the mirror-like polish on his shoes.  “You will recall the evidence against my brother was once as damning and as irrefutable, yet it was still found to be wrong. John worked tirelessly to clear his name – my brother and I will return that compliment – whether he is alive or dead – and not just because we feel duty-bound to do so”

“But I don’t understand – I mean, if he’s not involved, why this elaborate set up?”

“I stand by what I said earlier, Lestrade, that whoever set this up was relying on Sherlock being concerned for the good doctor’s safety.  Could we start with checking known associates of this Stuart Britton fellow? Maybe there’s a connection, someone who wouldn’t want you to bring Sherlock in on the crime?”

“Fuck” Greg scrubbed his hand across his face once more. “Is he dead, Mycroft? Is John Watson’s body just lying out there somewhere waiting for someone to find him?”

“I hope not, Detective Inspector, I sincerely hope not”

xOx

**_00.10 Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Sherlock carefully packed his slides and samples into sterile plastic boxes, then returned John’s jacket and jumper to the evidence bag. The hair samples he left for Anderson, knowing he could raise the necessary requests for DNA sampling, but the wax and make-up samples he picked up, tucking the boxes under his arm as he made his way back to the fourth floor meeting room.  Sally Donovan had to jog to keep up with him.

“What now then?” she asked as they waited for the lift to arrive.

“I take my findings to Lestrade, just as I promised” Sherlock looked down at her, his expression curiously blank. “And you will be able to confirm I haven’t tampered with the evidence in any way”

“So that’s why….”

“I didn’t send you out of the lab – of course it was, Sally, at last you’re making use of your brain, well done!”

“Don’t be bloody facetious” Sally snapped, stepping ahead of him into the lift. 

“It may surprise you to learn that it was not my intention to be, as you so colourfully put it, facetious.” entering the lift behind her, Sherlock pressed the button and waited for the doors to close. “Despite what you may think, I know John is innocent. However my word is not going to be enough to clear his name.”

“But if he comes forward….”

“I don’t think he can”

Sally opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She stared at the man standing looking down at her, realising that what she could read in his eyes was a kind of hopeless helplessness.

“Why?” when she finally found her voice it was little more than a whisper.

Turning away to step out of the lift, Sherlock’s voice was not much louder.

“I wish I could be sure”

Mycroft was waiting at the door to the meeting room as Sherlock rounded the corner.

“They are bringing in the owner of the car, Sherlock.”

“What?  Where is he?” he pushed past his brother, who turned to step into the room in his wake.

“He should be here within the hour” Lestrade confirmed. “The team will bring in anyone they find at the property with him – meanwhile, what can you tell us about John’s clothes?”

Sherlock outlined his findings, with Sally confirming there was no attempt to tamper with the results. On hearing this Lestrade opened his mouth the deliver a stinging rebuke to his subordinate, but he was stopped by a word from the consulting detective.

“She’s quite right” he said softly “Sergeant Donovan is aware of my reasons for her continued presence in the lab while I worked.”

“Ugh!  I see you’ve gone over to the dark side then Sally!”

“Anderson” it was a low growl, but everyone in the room turned to stare at the woman whose voice had issued forth. “Leave it”

“What?  You mean you believe this….this…”

“I mean I stood and watched as he conducted scientifically sound tests on the evidence – in this case, John Watson’s clothing – and I can confirm that in no way did he try to rig the evidence in John’s favour”

“Right, that’s enough Anderson” the beleaguered Detective Inspector stepped in, separating the antagonists.  “There are hair samples for DNA testing – get onto that ASAP.” He turned to his Detective Sergeant. “Sally, give Dimmock a hand chasing up the known associates of Stuart Britton”

“I’m on it, Sir”

“I want to question him” Sherlock grasped Lestrade’s arm.

“Sorry – no can do at this point, Sherlock, but you can listen in, and I can ask questions for you.  I’ll wear an earpiece that we can link to a radio mic”

For a moment it looked as if Sherlock was going to argue, but a soft word from his brother made pause, then he nodded and flung himself into a nearby chair.

xOx

**_03.50hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

The silence hung thick and heavy in the blackness of the room. John didn’t know how long he had been asleep, only that something had woken him up.

Shivering in the cold he strained his eyes to see through the gloom, but it was no use. He couldn’t even see the hand he held up in front  
of his face.

Forcing down panic, he tried to listen, for he was certain something was in the room with him, he was sure he’d heard…

“John”

There it was again! Faint, but most definitely there.

“Sherlock?” he called back – he’d know that voice anywhere “Sherlock, help me?”

And now there was only silence again. Silence, and the sound of John’s laboured breathing as he fought to make sense of the senseless, fought and failed, as once more he screamed

“Sherlock!”

**A/N: Aggravated TDA (Taking and Driving Away) is more commonly known these days as car-jacking,  ABH (Actual Bodily Harm) and GBH (Grievous Bodily Harm) are high penalty assault crimes.**


	6. Best Laid Plans

**_00.45hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

They could hear the shouting as they approached the interview rooms.  Three people had been brought in, and they were being held in three different rooms.  Their priority, the owner of the car, had asked for legal representation. Lestrade had pre-empted the request and had arranged for the duty solicitor to be present when Britton arrived – they were in the interview room now.

“There is a radio and camera link in the room,” Lestrade led the way into a small side room, where a large television screen and microphone were set up on a purpose built unit.  “The camera has been set to record Britton – you’ll no doubt want to read his body language”

Picking up a clear plastic earpiece he fitted it in place, gently sliding the volume control down. As Sherlock took a seat in front of the microphone the DI pointed to a small black button on the control panel.

“Push and hold that down when you want to speak. And speak slowly and clearly – not too loud”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And above all” he added for good measure “don’t start yelling questions and instructions willy nilly! I need you to wait for a suitable natural break in the conversation or we’ll lose control of the interview. I’ll try to engineer as many breaks for you as I can”

A light tap on the door prevented Sherlock from responding, and Greg opened it to find Sally Donovan waiting outside.

“We have that list of Britton’s known associates – DI Dimmock has pulled a team together to chase up their records” she paused, stepping into the room and walking across to where Sherlock was studying the suspect. “I thought you might like a copy of the list”

Surprised, Sherlock looked up, but the Detective Sergeant didn’t make eye contact, just held out a sheet of paper.

“Thank you, Sally” his confusion at the officer’s actions was evident in his voice, but Donovan just nodded and turned away.

“Right” Lestrade spoke into the uncomfortable silence that had settled over them. “Sally, I want you with me. Sherlock, Mycroft, just remember what I said about using the mic.”

Mycroft moved to stand behind his brother, and together they watched the two officers enter the interview room.

oOo

**_14.00hrs Thursday 31 st January 2013_ **

Sitting in the lounge of her hotel suite, Solange Dufour – better known to her partners in crime as Madam Diane – waited for the telephone to ring.  In a chair to her left her fixer, Anthony Carter, sat with his iPad on his lap, slowly scanning travel sites.

“I have the route planned” he said, his eyes never leaving the screen in from of him.

“Once our buyer confirms…”

“You’re certain of him?”

“He values the family connections” Solange said enigmatically, her dark eyes drawing his, a gleam of greed in their depths.

Any response Carter would have made was drowned by the shrill sound of the telephone. At a sharp nod from his employer, he picked up the receiver.

“Hello”

“May I speak to the proprietor of Dufour Diamond Merchants?” The voice was strong, and the accent though indistinct, was reminiscent of the Alsace region of north eastern France.

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Certainly, my name is Etienne Forrestier, Mlle. Dufour is expecting my call”

Asking the caller to hold, Carter looked towards his employer.  She smiled and leaned forward, taking the handset and sitting back.

“Forrestier, are you ready to discuss the merchandise?”

“You are certain they are genuine?”

“Their provenance is unimpeachable” there was a frostiness in her voice that dropped the temperature in the room by several degrees.

“I understand the Krylensky family were reluctant to part with them”

M. Forrestier, we both know they had no right to those diamonds, and so I liberated them. Now” her smile was feral “you have always believed your family were the rightful owners, are you prepared to pay the price for their return?”

“And that price is?”

“You know my price – fifteen million”

“Negotiable?”

“Don’t play games…” the porcelain features twisted into a snarl. “Your connection to the Rostopchin family means you are well aware of the value of these jewels – I could get more by selling them on the black market, if you find the  price too high” she let the threat hang in the air. The silence stretched as her buyer considered the implications.

“Very well” he said finally, “but I insist that my diamond expert examines the goods before the money is transferred”

“I would expect nothing less, however I warn you, as I intend to be out of this god forsaken country within the week, your expert must hurry”

“Monday” came the swift response, “he will be with you on Monday”

“Be sure he is” Solange Dufour nodded again to her fixer, watching with a smile as his fingers pressed down on the telephone cradle, terminating the call.

Carter looked up into her face, waiting for instructions.

“We leave on Wednesday, Anthony, make the arrangements”  

oOo

**_00.55hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Stephen Porter, duty solicitor, waited until Greg had given the time and date, and named the occupants of the room for the benefit of the tape, before leaning forward and staring at the senior police officer.

“My client wishes to make it known that he has no knowledge of the crimes with which he has been accused.”

“That remains to be seen, Mr Porter” Lestrade replied calmly, straightening the file on the table in front of him. “Now Mr Britton, can you tell me where you were at nine fifteen on the morning of Thursday 31st January.

Britton slouched in his chair with a smirk.

“Work” he said belligerently “some of us have **real** jobs”

“Where?”

“Fairfield Demolitions – got a job on in Deptford, just off Evelyn Street”

“And they can confirm you were there?” Sally leaned on her elbows and looked across the table.

Britton shrugged “S’pose”

Greg and Sally shared a look.

“And you drove to work that morning, correct?”

Again the shrug. “Yeah”

Greg pulled a photograph from the file and pushed it towards the two men sitting opposite him.

“For the benefit of the tape, I am showing Mr Britton a photograph of his car, taken from CCTV cameras within the Farringdon Road NCP car park at five minutes past nine on the morning in question.” He looked into Stuart Britton’s eyes. “Can you explain this?”

Britton looked at the solicitor, who leaned over and whispered something.  The suspect shook his head, his eyes flicking across to the police officers. Porter whispered again, and again received a negative response from his client.

“Mr Britton,” Sally’s finger tapped the photo. “We must ask you again, can you explain why your car is on record as being in the middle of the city of London just ten minutes before you say you were at work”

“I was on me way to work”

“Not possible!” Sherlock’s voice, soft and strong, sounded in Lestrade’s ear. An almost imperceptible nod was the only acknowledgement.

“Mr Britton, even on empty roads you would need to be doing at least double the speed limit…”

“So I drive fast!” came the leery response as Stuart Britton ignored the frantic hand gestures the duty solicitor was making, a futile attempt to rein the man in.

In the side room, Mycroft looked up from his Blackberry, leaned forward, and spoke into the microphone.

“My people are checking the ownership of Fairfield Demolitions – I’ll let you know when I have a name” he glanced at his brother, seeing him stiffen as he read through the list of known associates, and released the black button. “Brother?”

Sherlock shot him a sharp glance, then slid the paper across the desk, one long slender finger pointing out a name.  His eyes moving back to the screen, he saw that Sally was again leaning towards the suspect, on the table now a second photograph.

The brothers tuned out the interrogation.

“Tell me about Anthony Carter” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

“His name came up quite regularly in connection with a series of high profile thefts, both here and in Europe” his eyes slipped out of focus momentarily “John and I worked on a case that had been brought to us by the French ambassador – jewellery supposedly once owned by Joséphine de Beauharnais…”

“I remember. There were, if I recall correctly, several arrests, both here and in Paris”

“Unfortunately, while there was evidence, it was not enough to bring charges against him” Sherlock leapt to his feet and started pacing around the room. “There was a woman involved, French, always referred to herself as Madam Diane” leaning again over the control panel he stared at the four people in the interview room, sitting in silent stalemate, and once more opened communications.

“Lestrade, ask him what he knows about John”

Over the speakers they could hear Lestrade’s voice, and the camera picked up the blank look, the lack of recognition.

“He doesn’t know him” The baritone voice was quietly triumphant. “Ask him where we can find Anthony Carter”

Moments later, as the question was repeated, a look of horrified shock settled on the suspect’s face.

“Now” said Sherlock softly “now we might get somewhere”

oOo

**_02.00hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Greg and Sally almost fell through the door, exhaustion in every line of their bodies, yet a triumphant smile hovered on the Detective Inspector’s lips.

“Progress at last” he sighed, knowing that both Holmes brothers had been passing information to both Mycroft’s team and the waiting police teams.

“Dimmock is leading a team searching Britton’s house” Sherlock looked up from his iPhone “and Anderson has a forensics team working on the car.”

“And I have people tracking down that phone number” Mycroft looked at the Detective Sergeant, sitting wilting in the chair that Sherlock had recently vacated. “That was excellent work, Miss Donovan”

“What is Anthony carter’s connection to the robbery?” she asked, rubbing tiredly at her temples

“He has tenuous connections to the theft of other, shall we say ‘historically connected’ jewellery” Sherlock took a turn around the room as he spoke. “I don’t believe in coincidences – do you?”

Sally’s eyes shot up, expecting to see a sneer on the fine-chiselled features, but the clear grey gaze held hers, waiting for her reply. She shook her head.

Greg picked up the phone and asked the officer at the other end to bring them all coffee, then leaning against desk he looked around at the others.

“We’ll take a few minutes, then we’ll talk to the next suspect” he referred to the file he held in his hand “Bloke by the name of Phil Jones, in interview room three.  His brief should be here by now”

Beside him, Sally was switching on the camera in interview room three, making sure it was lined up correctly on the suspect.  Her shocked gasp had the three men in the room leaning over her shoulders to look at the screen.

“I thought that was him,” she whispered hoarsely “I thought that was Doctor Watson!”

oOo

**_22.00hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

The vague though passed through John’s mind, that even if his eyes had been open he wouldn’t have known it, so there was no need any longer to struggle to stay awake. His limbs felt heavy, and the shivering that ran through his body grew less and less.  His eyelids closed and he slipped, soundlessly, into a hypothermic coma.

 

**A/N Historical notes: Joséphine de Beauharnais was the first wife of Napoleon Bonaparte. Count Rostopchin was Governor General of Moscow in 1812, when Napoleon's army marched on the city.**


	7. The Darkest Hours

**_02.20hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2012_ **

It had taken the threat of removing both Sherlock and his brother from the building to get through to the younger man that he couldn’t just steam in to the interview room and shake the information out of the suspect.  This was far too serious, and he was too close to it personally.  Greg hated to do it, but he knew anything that the consulting detective could wring out of Britton’s associate would be useless – he would just have to be patient.

Much to Sherlock’s disgust Mycroft had agreed, urging the two police officers to make haste and get on with the interview.  The closing of the door as they left was his cue to face his younger sibling with some unpalatable truths.

“If John is dead, then it is up to us to make sure that the culprits don’t go unpunished, that they spend a very long time in prison.”

“But this…this… **_archaic_** method of evidence gathering will take too long!” Sherlock snarled back, pacing like a caged tiger “every wasted minute means our chances of finding him alive diminish”

“Sherlock”

Something, the tone of his brother’s voice maybe, made him pause in his tirade and look long and hard into the other man’s steady blue gaze.

“Sherlock, it’s been over 48 hours, by their reckoning he should have died twelve hours ago”

“Shut up, Mycroft. Until we find his body there’s a chance he’s still alive”

In the background, Greg and Sally could be heard asking the same questions they had put to their previous prisoner.

Mycroft remained calm in the face of his brother’s seething stubbornness.

“Then the best way to help John now, is to work with the information we already have  and use if effectively against _him_ ” he jabbed his finger at the screen where Phil Jones could be seen, lounging back in his chair, a look of bored disinterest on his face.

xOx

**_06.25hrs Friday 1 st February 2013_ **

The Desk Sergeant at Deptford Police Station had just sat down to enjoy his cup of coffee, when the shrill ringing of the telephone disturbed the early morning peace.  Grumbling good naturedly to himself, he reached across to pick up the receiver.  As he listened he took notes, occasionally repeating what the caller had said, clarifying the information, and at the end of the call he promised to pass it to CID as soon as one of their officers came in.

Returning to his rapidly cooling drink he sipped, inwardly rolling his eyes at the dangerous antics of bored kids.

 

D.I. Joe Callaghan made a habit of always being early – it was a well-known fact around the station that his wife  teased him mercilessly about it, saying he’s have the shock of his life when he eventually turned up ‘late’ for his own funeral!  So it was no surprise to anyone that, despite there being almost half an hour before he officially needed to be at his desk, at six thirty-five he pushed through the open front door of the station, and called a cheery ‘Good morning’ to the sergeant.

“Mr Callaghan,” the sergeant stood up and picked up his message pad. “Had a call from that demolition site on Grove Street – some kids broke in during the night and made a right mess of their machinery – pulled out wiring, ripped open battery housings and threw the batteries around” he shook his head, bemused. “Apparently there’s not a single vehicle that hasn’t been vandalised”

“No security I assume?” he knew the answer before the sergeant replied

“Cost saving – in the current economic climate…”

“The increase in their insurance will swallow any savings and more” he said with a wry grin, holding out his hand for the paperwork “They never learn, do they”

“The site foreman, a Mr Phelps, asked if someone could go over ASAP. He wants to get the insurer’s permission to hire replacement equipment in time to start work again on Monday morning”  

The DI acknowledged the request as he headed off towards his office, wondering if anyone else would be in yet.

xOx

**_02.40hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the desk, his glacial stare alternating between the suspect in the interview room, and the photograph of ‘John’ shooting a helpless boy.  At first glance, jones could easily be mistaken for Sherlock’s friend and flatmate, but the more he watched the man on the screen, the harder it was to believe that the eye-witnesses had so perfectly described the ex-army doctor. He was missing something, something critical.  The frown that had creased his brow since the start of the interview deepened, and his mind started going over everything that had happened since he received the text.  What had he missed? What?.... _Oh!_

Leaning forward he pressed the button.

“Ask him who applied the wax”

Lestrade stilled in his seat in the interview room, yet he didn’t acknowledge the younger man’s suggestion. Instead he tilted his head slightly, as if unsure of what he had heard. Sherlock sighed, frustrated.

“I believe he had his face re-constructed to make him look like John – that wax I found on John’s jumper was theatrical prosthetic wax. Now ask him who applied it” he glanced across at his brother, adding for his ears only “that would also explain the traces of make-up”

They both watched with interest as Lestrade asked the question. Jones’ reaction was akin to a startled deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car – his eyes widened, and his body froze, the only discernible movement being the convulsive bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

“No one” he said finally.

“Surely you mean ‘what wax?’ Mr Jones” Donovan asked, watching the suspect squirm.

In the side room the consulting detective smiled a grim smile.

“Well done, Sally” he said softly.

“You appear, dear brother, to have converted the Detective Sergeant to the side of the angels” Mycroft observed.

“She cannot argue with evidence” his brother responded, sitting back again and steepling his fingers against his lower lip. 

“Whose idea was it, to change your face?” Lestrade asked

“We didn’t!”

“We?” Lestrade leaned towards him suddenly “ **Who**?”

“Detective Inspector, please refrain from trying to intimidate my client” Jones’ solicitor tugged at his tie as he confronted the senior officer “He is co-operating”

Greg leaned back in his seat, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, attempting to placate both men sitting opposite. He didn’t want the brief to insist his client have a break, not when he could almost feel the suspect’s resolve beginning to crack.  Unobtrusively, and out of sight of the camera, he slid his foot across and tapped Sally’s ankle.

Sitting up straighter, the Detective Sergeant cleared her throat and clasped her hands together on the table in front of her.

“Mr Jones, you know Stuart Britton quite well” it was phrased as a statement, soft and easy, and the tension in the room dropped significantly. “tell us about your friendship. You work together, yes?”

The suspect nodded.

“For the tape please, Mr Jones”

Yes, we’re friends. Yes, we work together.  Ain’t a crime, is it?”

Sally ignored both the question and the insolent tone. 

“How did you meet?”

This time a shrug, as the suspect stared at her, hoping to wind her up, but Sally Donovan – no matter what Sherlock might say – was good at her job, and patient. She smiled.

“For the tape?”

“Can’t remember”

Sally nodded, looking down at her clasped hands for a moment, then back at the man in front of her.

“Okay. So, you’re staying at the house of a friend you work with, you get hauled into Scotland Yard in the middle of the night for questioning, the only shouting we heard from you was for your brief, no protestations of innocence or wrongful arrest, so let me ask you one more time” she leaned forward on her elbows and smiled a truly terrifying smile “Who changed your face?”

xOx

**_03.00hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

It was as Sally’s interview technique finally cracked Phil Jones’ composure that more pieces of the puzzle started coming together.

First came the call from Mycroft’s intelligence team – they had traced both the telephone number used by Anthony Carter and the owners of Fairfield Demolitions.  The number belonged to a small but well-appointed hotel in Southwark, while the owners of the business turned out to be well respected in the world of construction and demolition. It seemed unlikely they were anything other than unwitting players in this game.

Close on the heels of that information came a young Detective Constable from DI Dimmock’s team, with bags of evidence, including large quantities of cash that had been found in each of the bedrooms.

He put the bags on the table, and was explaining about Dimmock needing to see someone, but Sherlock was no longer listening.  He was staring at the smallest evidence bag, and the familiar black wallet inside it.  Anger boiled up inside him.

“Is that it?” he snarled at the hapless DC. “Just some money and John’s wallet?”

Mycroft nodded dismissal to the young officer, and joined his brother standing by the evidence from the house.

“There will be fingerprint evidence on the money, as well as on John’s wallet,” Sherlock looked at his brother “I’m assuming you have access to John’s fingerprint records?”

“Of course. I’ll have them sent forward for purposes of elimination”

“Not to Anderson!”

“No, we’ll deal with this tactfully”

Sherlock looked at the bags of money, estimating the amount of each bag to be no more than a couple of thousand pounds.

“Not much for the lives of an army doctor and an apprentice jeweller” he said quietly.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by DI Dimmock bursting through the door.

“We’ve got them!  We’ve got CCTV evidence of them three” he waved towards the screen “and it looks like they’ve got Dr Watson with them”

“Show me” Sherlock was out of the door before either of his companions could react.

Mycroft briefly advised Lestrade that they would be leaving the observation room, and then with Dimmock at his side followed his younger brother.

In the temporary operations centre on the fourth floor, Sherlock was leaning over the desk, looking closely at the CCTV footage.

“Once we knew what car to look for, and roughly where, we tried to find other evidence to link them to the theft” Penniston was explaining “I’ve got to say, I didn’t expect this good a result.” He froze the digital recording on a screen showing, quite clearly, Stuart Britton’s car travelling south along Evelyn Street in Deptford.

“Right,” he explained “if we take this forward” he matched words with actions, moving the recording at half speed “we see the car turning left onto Grove Street, and along to the demolition site where Britton and Jones both work”

Dimmock pointed to the time stamp on the screen.  01:17:02 Thursday 31/01/2013.

“Not going to work” he said to no-one in particular

“No,” agreed the consulting detective. “You said you saw John?” he was trying to batten down impatience, almost as if he could hear his friend’s voice reminding him that these people had been working for 48 or more hours with few breaks and less sleep.

“Just coming up, Sir” Penniston took over the narrative again. “Here,” he stopped the image again, and this time as his fingers flew over the keyboard another camera angle came on screen, and the images started moving once more.

They watched as Britton got out of the car and unstrapped a telescopic ladder from the roof, then unlocked the padlock on the gates to the demolition site.  As he moved through the gates and out of camera shot, his two companions could be seen hauling a fourth person from the back seat of the car. Penniston froze and zoomed in on the image this other person.

“John” Sherlock’s brain was racing, seeing the unconscious form of his friend being carried through the gates and out of shot. 

Penniston looked up.

“I’m sorry – that’s where we lose them, until they come back to the car without Dr Watson” he looked up at his employer’s brother and pre-empted the question he knew was coming “They were in there for forty minutes”

“He’s still in there, somewhere”

“I’m sure you are right” Mycroft looked around at the gathered police officers “Are any of you able to authorise action from the local officers?”

“I am,” Greg sounded beyond tired as he walked through the door, Sally trailing in his wake “What do you need?”

As Mycroft outlined what they had found out, and what they needed the local force to do, Sally was explaining to Sherlock that Jones’ brief had insisted on a break, but that they had enough to charge him with the murder of the apprentice. 

“Right” At the sound of Greg’s voice a hush fell over the room. “I’ll make the call to Deptford, and then Mr Holmes, Sherlock, Sergeant Donovan and I will make our way to the demolition site. Dimmock, are you okay to interview our third suspect? Try telling him we know he is only responsible for hiding John Watson; suggest he may not get such a heavy sentence if he tells us where on the site he is”

Dimmock nodded and left the room.

“We must assume” Mycroft added, “that since Thursday morning some, if not all, of the buildings will be partially or completely demolished” He turned to Penniston “Access the GIS system, I want a layout of properties in the area, road names, property types. Send the information to my iPad.”

“Okay,” Greg addressed the other officers “anyone who has been at this now from the start, try to get some rest, pull in some support for Dimmock, make sure the results from forensics on the evidence gathered is relayed to either myself or Sergeant Donovan without delay”

As they left the building, Mycroft observed that neither officer was in fit state to drive, and offered the use of his car, pointing out that it was too early for traffic to cause a problem, no need for blue lights and sirens.

“And arrange for an ambulance” Sherlock added as the car pulled out into the dark deserted London streets. “We assume he’s alive until proved otherwise”

xOx

**_04.15hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Sally Donovan’s head was spinning with the speed at which information was pouring in on Mycroft’s iPad.  It seemed to take on a life of its own as messages and files flashed into life on its screen with astounding regularity.

The Local force were able to advise that work had stopped the day before due to vandalism, and she had seen a spark of relief flash across both Holmes brothers’ faces – it gave the Doctor a better chance of survival. 

The big breakthrough, however, was the confession from the last suspect; that the three men had carried their unconscious prisoner down through the ‘barrel drop’ of an old, disused pub, and into the bricked-up cellar. 

Sherlock snatched his brother’s computer and opened up the GIS maps that Penniston had sent, scanning the properties.

“There” he shouted “Look. Public House, and the only one in the demolition area”

The car drew to a halt beside two police cars and an ambulance.  As they stepped out they were greeted by DI Callaghan.

“We’ve brought the foreman along to open up, and maybe he can help locate your missing person”

Greg nodded his thanks as Sherlock thrust the map in front of the hapless Mr Phelps.

“We’re looking for the pub, the Lighterman”

Phelps looked at the map, than nodded.

“Wait here a minute, let’s get some light on this” and he crossed swiftly to the portakabin that served as an office and storage area.  Within minutes there was the sound of a generator firing up, and light flooded the site.

“The one thing the kids didn’t get to” he said wryly as he led them over the rubble strewn site. “Unfortunately, the pub was one of the first buildings to go, but you’re lucky that we hadn’t finished clearing the rubble – once that’s done we’d have simply smashed through to the cellar” The implications were not lost on his audience.

Using flashlight, they scoured the ground for the tell-tale signs of an external cellar door.

“Here!  It’s here” Callaghan shouted.  He’d found just a small corner of the wooden door, but it was enough.

Sherlock through himself down and started throwing rubble aside.  Without hesitation Phelps, Callaghan and Donovan joined him. Lestrade and Mycroft went back to fetch the paramedics and a stretcher.

Time seemed to drag, but it was only a matter of minutes before the bowed and rotting doors were cleared and pulled open.

Hanging precariously upside down, Sherlock shone his torch around the room until he saw him.

“John!”

There was no response. Pulling his head back out of the cellar he vaguely heard Phelps offer to get a ladder, but he couldn’t wait. Thrusting his torch back into his Belstaff pocket he sat on the edge of the opening, then twisting, he lowered himself until he could drop the last foot to the cellar floor.

Seven pairs of eyes watched as he rushed to the still figure, watched as he rolled the prone figure over, feeling for a pulse.  It was there, slow and very faint.

“He’s alive, but only just!” he called, noting the coldness of his friend’s skin.  Striping off his coat, he wrapped it around the small still form, picking him up and carrying him towards the opening, where Phelps was lowering a sturdy ladder.  Looking down into the cold pale face, he prayed they weren’t too late.


	8. Endgame

The speed at which the paramedics worked, a team moving in a smoothly choreographed life-saving dance, would have made John proud. Once in the ambulance, they stripped his damp clothing from him, all the while keeping Sherlock’s coat over him, retaining the shared warmth the younger man had offered in the cellar.

Sherlock sat quietly on the jump seat at the head of the stretcher, his eyes on John’s face. The doctor looked small and very fragile, covered as he was by the coat and layers of blankets, his nose and mouth encased in a clear plastic oxygen mask. A paramedic performed CPR while an ambulance technician monitored John’s vital signs.

“What are his chances?”

The technician looked up from her patient, her fingers still resting on his carotid pulse point.

“Hard to say at the moment,” she said softly. “I still can’t find a pulse, although that is fairly common with this degree of hypothermia.” She reached across to brush damp wisps of dirty blond hair away from his face. “Is there anything you can tell us that might help?”

Despite his desperation to help, Sherlock found his brain was refusing to co-operate with him. He stared down at his friend, knowing that if the tables had been turned, John would have reeled off all the pertinent information, from his blood group to what his last meal had been and when.

The woman must have seen the lost look in his eyes because she smiled and prompted him. “Let’s start simple – his name?”

“John….Dr John Hamish Watson” saying his name had the effect of loosening Sherlock’s tongue, and with it the floodgates of information. “He was beaten up at around 8.45 on Wednesday evening – I imagine they gave him some kind of drug to knock him out, he was unconscious when they carried him down to that cellar less than five hours later.”

“So, he’s been down there more than 50 hours, he’s very lucky you were looking for him. Did you feel a pulse at all when you found him?” She asked, and as Sherlock nodded, she filled in some of the boxes on the form clipped to the board in front of her and smiled back reassuringly. “Sounds like he’s strong; he didn’t give in easily.”

Sherlock nodded. “A fighter” he murmured, bracing himself as the vehicle dipped and swayed, swinging at speed around the roundabout, finally slowing to turn into the St Thomas’ Hospital ambulance bay.

The next few moments were a blur of activity as John was whisked out of the ambulance and into the hospital, the paramedics giving clear and concise information about John to the team taking over his care.  Following the trolley swiftly through the doors, by-passing A&E and heading straight for ICU, the consulting detective’s long stride kept pace with the medical team.  As they entered the lift he could see that there was no room inside for him without compromising his friend’s care, so he stepped back and watched as the doors closed, hearing the nurse directing them to the first floor. 

Glancing swiftly around him Sherlock spotted the stairs, and hurrying through the doors he took them two at a time, reaching the first floor in time to see them push him into a treatment room, the door closing behind them with awful finality.

oOo

**_04.50hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Joe Callaghan had watched in a kind of horrified fascination as the tall, curly haired young man passed his precious burden reluctantly upwards, and into the hands of the waiting paramedics, before scrambling  up the ladder and tearing off in their wake. His three companions didn’t seem at all surprised at his behaviour, and as the city gent and the dusky skinned Detective Sergeant made their way slowly back to their car, Callaghan found himself left holding the proverbial baby as the senior officer from New Scotland Yard instructed him to seal off the area and, in Lestrade’s own words, ‘make sure that not so much as a sparrow’s fart gets in or out of the site’ without his say so.

Now he stood in the empty street outside demolition site, waiting for the site manager Phelps to re-lock the gates and secure the site. Through the gaps in the wooden fencing he could see the blue and white tape that his officers had tied around metal pegs, staked out around the remains of the Lighterman pub.

“Will we be able to carry on as planned on Monday?” Phelps dropped the final padlock into place, and moved to join him at the roadside. “I mean, I know what that other Detective said, but surely he won’t hold up work?”

“I wouldn’t bank on it,” Joe responded tiredly “At the very least this is a case of attempted murder – by the look of the poor bastard they dragged out of there I’d be very surprised if it doesn’t become a murder enquiry before the day grows much older.”

He ran a hand tiredly over his face looking first at his shoes, then up into the other man’s face.

“They’re sending their forensic team in within the next couple of hours, I’ll see if we can get a clear idea of when the site will be handed back.”

Phelps looked pained. “Even if we can have part of the site back, so we don’t get any further behind than we are already are.”

“No harm in asking, in fact, you can ask yourself as you’ll need to be here anyway to let them in.” Callaghan smiled “So, I can give you a ring when they turn up, or I can offer you a half decent cup of coffee and a biscuit or two back at the station while we wait – what’s it to be?”

oOo

**_05.00hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Stepping out of the lift Mycroft and Greg were greeted by the sight of Sherlock, sans Belstaff, pacing up and down outside the closed and locked doors of the ICU.

“Don’t ask – they won’t let me in until they stabilise him or…” Sherlock spoke as Greg opened his mouth, forestalling the question yet unable to vocalise the worst possibility.  His skin looked pale and bruised, the lack of sleep catching up with him, dulling his usually sharp edged tongue, and causing his self-assuredness to falter. He looked at his brother, a silent question in his eyes.

Mycroft shook his head.

“There have not been any new arrests yet. We’re waiting for the combined intelligence and Scotland Yard teams to strengthen the case against Anthony Carter, and through him they hope to find the connection to Madam Diane”

“We have clear fingerprints from the bands around the bundles of cash” Greg added, “and Anderson has found the gun.”

“Where?” Sherlock almost leapt on the older man, grasping his arms in a painful grip.

“In the car.” There was a touch of triumph in his voice, “shoved carelessly under the passenger seat. We’re checking it now for fingerprints.”

Sherlock acknowledged the words with a brief nod, turning as the door behind him opened and a tall, slim, white coated doctor emerged, carrying Sherlock’s Belstaff.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?” she read the name from the ambulance control sheet, and then looked up at the three men. Greg stepped forward. “Was it you who accompanied Dr Watson in the ambulance?”

“No, that was me.”

“And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes.  John is my friend and colleague.”

She handed him his coat before scribbling a quick note on the papers in front of her.

“I’m Dr Robinson, I’ll be responsible for John’s care while he’s with us in ICU.” Indicating the door behind her, she continued “We’re still trying to stabilise him and bring his core temperature back up, so we need to keep him in the treatment room for a while yet.  Has he any family that we need to inform?”

Mycroft stepped forward and handed the doctor his business card. She looked down at it, then back up at him.

“I have people on their way to inform his sister and bring her to London. Unfortunately she is currently residing in Surrey, so it may be a while before she gets here.” He said.

‘ _If at all_ ’ Sherlock’s mind added unhelpfully, but he didn’t voice his opinion of his friend’s alcoholic sister, instead he asked “May we see him?”

“I can’t let you all in – only two visitors are generally allowed, and usually only once a patient is transferred to a cubicle on the ward.” Dr Robinson glanced around at the pale, tired faces. “Well, maybe I can let you see him for a moment or two.” She conceded, turning to press a call bell beside the door.

From inside the ward a nurse looked up, and seeing the doctor waiting outside pushed a button, releasing the door lock.

Mycroft excused himself to make a telephone call, leaving his brother and Lestrade to follow the woman into the treatment room.

The nurse in attendance smiled and stepped outside.  John lay on the bed, pale and still. His body, covered in blankets from chin to toes, looked slightly too bulky.  Sherlock frowned as he noted it, and also the blood-filled tubes that ran out from underneath the covers to and from a machine that stood beside the bed.

A heart monitor beeped, much slower that was normal; and another machine gave a constant temperature reading – 30 degrees C – still on the edge of severe hypothermia. The young man looked at the doctor.

“We have warm compresses on his body – at his neck, chest wall and groin – and we are performing a cardiopulmonary bypass  -” she indicated the machine “- which means we are temporarily withdrawing John’s blood, the machine warms it, and then it’s re-infused back into the patient”

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the sick look on Lestrades face as he stared, fascinated, at the blood flowing into and out of the machine.

“Will he live?”

“He has a fighting chance, Mr Holmes. He’s fortunate that you found him when you did.”

“And long term effects?”

“We won’t know until he wakes up” she thought it prudent not to mention the psychological effects of the 50 hours of loneliness and sensory deprivation that the ex-soldier may suffer – that bridge could be crossed once he was out of immediate danger. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.  Once he’s stable you’ll be able to visit him again.”

Pulling his gaze away from the tubes and machinery, Lestrade shook hands with the doctor and thanked her, then dragged an unwilling Sherlock out of the room and through the doors, back to the hallway where Mycroft was waiting for them.

The three men rode the lift back to the ground floor in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.  It was only as they passed through to the A&E department that Greg remembered Sally saying she would wait there for them, that she didn’t want to get in the way in ICU.  With a frown he glanced around the waiting area, looking in vain for the familiar shock of frizzy black curls.  Sherlock tapped his arm and pointed to the far corner of the room – Sally had fallen asleep, lying along several chairs, her head pillowed on her arms.

“Thanks” Greg muttered as he slipped away through the rows of chairs to wake his tired Sergeant.

oOo

**_05.05hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Everyone in the temporary ops room was tired, many had been working without proper rest breaks for close to 36 hours, snatching sleep where they could but more often topping up the caffeine levels to keep going.

The three suspects had been charged with the kidnap and attempted murder of Dr John Watson; that was enough to hold them for now – more charges though were bound to follow – and the combined teams were now resting, waiting for information from both the HOLMES database* and from international colleagues.

Penniston shouldered his way through the door carrying two over-filled mugs of coffee, each with a bacon sandwich on a plate, balancing precariously on top.  Placing one in front of Dimmock, he sat down opposite him and took a cautious sip of the hot, strong liquid.  The two men had developed a professional respect for each other, thrown as they were into working at close quarters, now they waited together for developments.

“What’s he like to work for then, your Mr Holmes?” Dimmock asked, biting hungrily into his sandwich.

Penniston grinned.

“He’s a stickler for attention to detail, rarely thanks you for the stuff you do, but if you work hard and don’t try to cut corners he’ll back you up one hundred per cent, and if you need time out you’ll find him surprisingly understanding about it.”

Dimmock nodded and flicked a glance around the room.

“Can’t say the same about the other Holmes,” he said almost conspiratorially, “he’ll happily slag you off and still expect you to do things for him, or call him in on cases.”

“But he’s good though, isn’t he?  At solving cases I mean.”

“Hmm, and that colleague of his, John Watson, he’s not such a bad bloke.  I didn’t really know that Sherlock fella before Watson came on the scene, but everyone says how he’s not as bad now as he used to be.”  

Across the room a phone rang, the sound interrupting their conversation as the whole room waited, listening. The WPC who had answered the call thanked the person at the other end, having written the information in her day book, then she turned to update the operations board.

Picking up his mobile, Dimmock punched in Lestrade’s number.

“We’ve got the connection” he said as soon as the other man answered. “Anthony Carter, known associate of one Solange Dufour, best known to the Police Nationale as Madam Diane, currently a resident of Switzerland.”

“Great!” Lestrades voice sounded tinny over the phone speaker, “We need to check with the Border Agency, see if and when she entered the country”

Glancing across at Penniston he saw the intelligence officer already at his computer. Penniston nodded affirmation.

“Penniston’s on it already” he relayed the information, adding “I’ll start putting together the papers for a search of St Christopher’s Hotel, and arrest warrants for both Carter and Dufour.”

Terminating the call he turned to direct the waiting staff, before opening up his own computer and logging into the Force database.  The sooner he filled out these forms, the sooner they could send a task force to the hotel to make the arrests.

oOo

**_07.50hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Greg Lestrade, flanked by Sergeant Donovan and DI Dimmock, walked into the reception area of the St Christopher and quietly demanded to see the duty manager.

Both uniformed and non-uniformed officers had been posted outside of the fire exits, and several more were waiting outside the front of the hotel. Standing at the door, slightly apart from the police, Sherlock paced impatiently while his brother, not wishing to get in the way, sat and watched him from the comfort of his car.

At a signal from Lestrade they all moved forward.  Sherlock joined the main contingent of officers as they headed for the stairs.  In a practiced routine the officers split into three groups, one group standing at the stairwell ready to prevent anyone going past, the others going with the senior officers to the rooms of the two suspects.

On a silent count of three Sally hammered on Carter’s door as Greg hammered on Dufour’s.  Shouting a warning that they were about to enter the rooms, they used the master keys provided by the manager and were into the rooms before either suspect had the chance to even get out of bed.

In Dufour’s room, Greg read the shocked and dishevelled Frenchwoman her rights, but she was barely taking any notice – her horrified gaze was on the dark haired detective standing staring down at her from the foot of the bed, loathing and retribution writ large across his sharp features.

“You!” she spat, regaining her wits as she pulled the duvet up around her naked shoulders “What right have you to be here?”

Sherlock spun on his heel and walked out.

“You don’t need me for this bit” he spoke over his shoulder to Lestrade “I’ll wait outside until the formalities are over.”

Greg grinned and turned his attention back to the lady in the bed.

“I have every right to be here” he said, as if her comment had been directed at him. “Now, I suggest you go to the bathroom with the WPC and put some clothes on – we have a nice warm interview room waiting for you at the Yard.”

Ten minutes later, both suspects were loaded into police cars and taken back to the Yard, while the officers searched both rooms thoroughly.  Sally Donovan’s team turned up enough evidence to link Carter to the three suspects currently being held, as well as the names of the decoy van drivers, the fourth kidnapper and a doctor who had supplied the drugs and medical know-how to anaesthetise John.

Greg had been less fortunate, Solange Dufour knew well how to cover her tracks.  There was not a single shred of hard evidence in her room that could tie her to the robbery or the kidnapping, and only her reaction on seeing Sherlock gave any indication of the trouble she could foresee if they did find anything.

Sherlock, having assisted in the search of the lady’s room, now stood staring out of the window, deep in thought, his eyes out of focus as he tried to work out where she would have hidden the Rostopchin Diamonds.  He was certain they were still in her possession, because once they were sold on she would have left the country.  None of the papers that he had found gave any clue, there was nothing to link her to any organisation or corporation that dealt in money, jewels or antiques, so the only possibility was…..

“Lestrade, I need one of your officers”

Greg looked up from his third search of the bedside cabinet.

“What do you….no, don’t tell me, I’d probably prefer not to know.” He glanced around the room, seeing Sergeant Donovan entering at that moment, and prompted by some inner devil said “take Sally, she has the authority for whatever it is you need to do.”

To his surprise neither complained, and as the consulting detective swept through the door Sally fell into step beside him. In silence they descended the stairs to the reception, where the duty manager and receptionist were both nervously eyeing the remaining police officers while trying to look busy. Sherlock stalked up to the counter and stared down at the manager.

“The customers in rooms 3 and 4 – did either of them ask you to look after valuables for them?”

Sally’s eyes widened.

“Surely they wouldn’t…”

“Why not Sally? Hiding the goods in plain sight, not that unusual.” He turned back to the manager. “Well?”

“Um, yes.  I mean, they both have safety deposit boxes locked in the safe in my office.” He moved to open the hatch in the reception desk to let them through, then led the way through the back to his office.

“We don’t ask what they want to put in there, only that they have sufficient personal insurance cover, just in case.”

Unlocking the office door, he crossed the room to an old Phoenix combination safe. Nerves made him fumble the numbers on the dial, but at the second attempt the lock opened smoothly.

Another set of keys appeared, and the only two boxes in the safe were opened. The first, Carter’s, was filled with bundles of money which Donovan swiftly removed and placed into an evidence bag.

“I’d lay odds the serial numbers on these notes run consecutively with the ones we took from Britton’s house” she said, sealing the bag and writing on it the time, date and where it had been collected from.

“I never imagined you as a gambler Sally”

“And I never imagined I’d actually be working with you” she replied dryly, opening the lid of the second box.

The contents of the second box took their breath away.  Inside was a very old, leather covered jewellery box, with intricate gold leaf tooling on the lid.  With care, and respect for the age of the item, Sherlock reached in and lifted it out, gently sliding the ornate locking mechanism and lifting the lid.

“Bloody hell!” Sally exclaimed.

Even in the dim artificial light in the office the Rostopchin Diamonds flashed and sparkled enticingly, their brilliance unmatched by anything the Detective Sergeant had seen before.

“Supposedly worth over thirty million pounds.”  Sherlock stated, carefully reclosing the box. “You may want to get Lestrade down here to decide how best to transport them back to the Yard.”

oOo

**_11.00hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Looking up from the forensic report from the demolition site, Lestrade watched as DI Gregson interviewed Solange Dufour.  It had been a tough decision to make, but Greg was man enough to admit that he was tired, and he really didn’t want to screw up the whole investigation by making a stupid mistake. Instead he sat in the observation room dividing his time between watching the screen and noting that there was no evidence to be had at the rubble remains of the Lighterman pub.  He signed off the papers returning the site to the owners, sighed and stood up wearily.

He had sent Sally home, and Dimmock had gone off duty too. Mycroft had pulled his staff from the ops room, assuring Lestrade that any further information they received would be passed straight over. Now, as he watched Gregson showing Dufour and her swanky high class solicitor the fingerprint evidence from the jewel case, he knew he could go home too – they had her, fair and square.  She could deny it all she liked, but they had her for receiving stolen goods, accessory to kidnapping and accessory to the murder of the apprentice.  He wasn’t sure yet about the other charge relating to John, currently that stood as accessory to the attempted murder of Dr Watson.

On the other hand, Carter had already admitted that they had, on the lady’s instructions, kidnapped the doctor, used theatrical wax and make up to turn Jones into a ringer and used him as the ‘front man’ in the raid so that Watson would be blamed. Interestingly, he had also confessed that she was afraid that Holmes and Watson would be called in to investigate the theft, so she had staged the kidnapping and set up to keep the consulting detective busy and more importantly banned from assisting Scotland Yard.

 As he left the observation room Greg pulled out his phone and stared again at the text message he’d received.

_‘John is on the main ICU Ward. Temp. 35 and rising slowly. Still unconscious. Prognosis unchanged – SH’_

That had been over an hour ago. Sherlock had gone straight to the hospital from the hotel, knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to interview either Dufour or Carter.  Part of him wanted to go to the hospital to see for himself John’s progress, but he knew he was far too tired, and he really needed to go home and sleep. Sherlock would let him know if there were any changes.

oOo

**_13.27hrs Saturday 2 nd February 2013_ **

Sound came back first, muted and strangely familiar. Not the crashing explosions or the rumbling of tanks, this time it was the constant, steady beeping of a machine, the soft sound of rubber soles on linoleum, and under all of that the sound of slow heavy breathing.

Confused, John tried to remember what had happened, but his mind seemed stuck on a loop that spun on three words, cold, dark and damp. Trying to rationalise, John noted that he was warm enough, and certainly there was nothing damp about his current surroundings.  As to the third, he prised open reluctant eyelids, hissing as the bright hospital light seared his eyes.

There was a movement at the side of the bed, a weight lifting off the mattress.

“John?”

Sherlocks voice sounded fuzzy with sleep, but the eyes that looked down into John’s face were alert and worried.

John squinted, pulling his eyes into focus. He was still trying to make sense of the world around him when he saw movement in his peripheral vision.

The button Sherlock had pressed on the wall beside John’s bed alerted the nursing staff, bringing two of them hurrying to the cubicle. As they fussed around, asking John questions, checking temperature readings and vitals, the younger man moved to the foot of the bed. John’s eyes followed him, never leaving his face.  Sherlock watched the lines of concentration on his friend’s face as he tried to answer the questions, but it was obvious to all that he was struggling.  It was a relief to both men when, having removed the last of the compresses from under the sheets, the Senior Sister straightened up the covers and advised him to relax.

“You’ve been quite poorly, John,” she said softly, “it’s little wonder you can’t remember much yet.  Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you soon.”

As she left, Sherlock moved back up to stand beside his friend.

“How do you feel?”

John blinked slowly, then licked at his dry, chapped lips.

“Thirsty” he croaked, “and confused. Where was I?”

“First things first,” Sherlock smiled, pleased beyond reason that John hadn’t asked what happened, perhaps his friend remembered more that he realised. “Let me find a drink for you.”

He was about to step out of the cubicle when a staff nurse appeared with a lidded cup and a straw.

“Warm tea” she said as she handed it to Sherlock. “You’ll need to hold it for him.” And she was gone again before either man could respond.

The detective looked at the cup in his hand, and then across at his friend. John looked right back at him, and a sound – suspiciously like a giggle – escaped him. Like floodgates opening, relief tore through both men, and the sound of poorly stifled laughter floated out from the curtained cubicle and into the ward.

oOo

**_01.25hrs Thursday 7 th February 2013_ **

Sherlock lay on the couch, fingers steepled against his lips eyes staring sightlessly at the shadows thrown on the ceiling from the street light below.

John had been released from hospital that afternoon, with strict instructions to rest for a couple of days and not to go out for prolonged periods in the cold.

Mrs Hudson had made a fuss, bringing tea and cakes, and both Mycroft and Greg called in, the former on the pretext of having a case that Sherlock might like to look at, the latter because he felt he needed to apologise for even thinking that John might have been involved.  John listened tiredly to all three visitors, sleepily waving away Lestrade’s apologies and agreeing with Mycroft that yes, Sherlock would probably need something to keep the boredom away, but right now he really just needed to catch up on his sleep.

When at last their visitors left, and they had eaten as much as they could of the food that Angelo had delivered (personally – to make sure that John really was okay), John took himself off to bed, calling wearily back down the stairs that Sherlock too should get some sleep.

Sherlock had agreed that he would, although both men knew that it was unlikely to happen.  And so he lay there, turning over the events of the last nine days in his mind.

He had just decided that the truce between Sally and himself was unlikely to survive their next shared crime scene, when the sound of soft whimpering from the upstairs room alerted him that John might not be dealing with this as well as he thought. Sliding off the couch he started to make his way up the stairs, careful not to step on any of the creaky treads, and he had almost made it to the top when the scream ripped through the flat.

“Sherlock!”

In three strides the younger man was standing in the open doorway of John’s room. John was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide open, staring, unseeing. His hands – still lightly bandaged where the skin was ripped and nails torn out – were reaching forward as if to grasp at something. Or someone.

“John” Sherlock kept his voice soft, not wanting to startle his friend. Moving forward into the room he noted that the bedside light was on, had probably been left on when the doctor went to sleep, and as he got closer he could hear John’s voice, a pleading whisper, saying the same thing over and over.

“Sherlock, help me?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he put a hand gently on John’s shoulder.

“John? Wake up, John.”

The man in the bed drew a shuddering breath, his arms dropped loosely by his sides and his head fell forward onto his chest.

Sherlock kept his hold of his friend, feeling the tremors running through him slowly subsiding, until John looked up again, confused.

“You were there” he whispered “You spoke to me, but when I called out you didn’t answer”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “By the time I found you, you were comatose”

John frowned, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them, letting his forehead drop onto his knees.

“But…who then? Who did I hear?  It was your voice”

“It was a nightmare, John. Just a nightmare.” Sherlock’s brain was racing through the possibilities as he eased his friend back down onto the pillows. “Do you want me to sit with you for a while?”

The blond head shook.

“No, just leave…leave the light, would you” John hated to admit any weakness, but this seemed especially awful.

“Go to sleep John, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” As he spoke Sherlock pulled the covers back over John’s shoulders, realising as he did that the doctor was already asleep.

Slowly walking back down to the living room, the young man pulled his phone from his pocket and fired off a text.

_‘Mycroft, can you find John a good therapist? – SH’_

**A/N: (*) The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System is an investigation management system that takes all the information entered onto the Police databases and allows it to be evaluated, sifted, sorted and prioritised.**

**Thanks to open NASA Research data for information regarding Sensory Deprivation.**

**Thanks also to my wonderful friends in the NHS (who wish to remain anonymous – wonder why??? LOL!) for help with the effects and treatment of severe hypothermia.**

**Lastly – thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed – you make it worthwhile!**


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